“Nope.” The bartender shook his head, plunking a cup of coffee in front of me. “She’s cut off.”

I wiped my face with my hand and looked at the guy beside me, shrugging. “I’m fine,” I said. Or slurred. Maybe. “I only had a couple.”

“I know. They don’t know anything.” We’d been talking for about an hour now, and this was what I knew: his name was Sherman, he was a junior at some college I’d never heard of in Minnesota, and in the last ten minutes he’d progressively slid his leg closer and closer to mine while trying to pass it off as just the crowd jostling him. Now he shook a cigarette out of the pack in his hand, then offered it to me. I shook my head and he lit it, sucking down smoke and then blowing it straight up in the air. “So,” he said, “a girl like you must have a boyfriend.”

“Nope,” I said, poking at my coffee with the spoon.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, picking up his drink. “Are you lying to me?”

I sighed. This entire scenario was like the default talk-to-a-girl-at-a-bar script, and I was only playing along because I wasn’t entirely sure I could get off my bar stool without stumbling. At least Jess was coming. I’d called her. Hadn’t I?

“It’s the truth,” I told him. “I’m really just such a bitch.”

He looked surprised at this, but not necessarily in a bad way. In fact, he looked kind of intrigued, as if I’d just admitted I wore leather panties or was double-jointed. “Now, who told you that?”

“Everyone,” I said.

“I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up,” he said.

“I bet you do.”

“No, really.” He raised his eyebrows at me, then pantomimed holding a joint between two fingers. “Out in the car. Come with me and I’ll show you.”

I shook my head. Like I was that stupid. Anymore. “Nope. I’m waiting for a ride.”

He leaned closer to me: he smelled like aftershave, something strong. “I’ll make sure you get home. Come on.” And then he put his hand on my arm, curling his fingers around my elbow.

“Let go,” I said, trying to tug my arm back.

“Don’t be like that,” he said, almost affectionately.

“I’m serious,” I told him, jerking my elbow. He held on. “Let go.”

“Oh come on, Emmy,” he said, finishing his drink. He couldn’t even get my stupid name right. “I don’t bite.”

Then he started to tug me off my stool, which normally I would have made more difficult, but again, my balance wasn’t exactly right on just then. Before I knew it I was on my feet, then getting yanked through the crowd.

“I said let go, you fucking asshole!” I pulled my arm loose, hard, and it flew up, smacking him in the face and sending him stumbling, just slightly, backward. Now people were looking at us, in that mildly-interesting-at-least-until-the-music-starts-again kind of way. How had I let this happen? One nasty remark from Chris and I’m bar trash, fighting in public with some guy named Sherman? I could feel the shame rising up in me, flushing my face. Everyone was looking at me.

“Okay, okay, what’s going on here?” That was Adrian, the bouncer, too late as usual for the real commotion but always up for a chance to throw his little bit of power around.

“We’re just talking at the bar and we go to go outside and she freaks,” Sherman said, pulling at his collar. “Crazy bitch. She hit me.”

I was standing there, rubbing my arm, hating myself. I knew if I turned around I’d see that girl again, so weak and screwed up. She’d go to the parking lot, no problem. After that night at the party, she’d gotten a reputation for it. I hated her for that. So much I could feel a lump rising in my throat, which I pressed down because I was better than that, much better. I wasn’t Lissa: I didn’t trot my pain out to show around. I kept it better hidden than anyone. I did.

“God, this is swelling,” Sherman whined, rubbing his eye. What a wuss. If I’d hit him on purpose, well, then that would have been different. But it was an accident. I didn’t even really have my arm in it.

“You want me to call the police?” Adrian asked.

I was suddenly so hot, and I could feel my shirt sticking to my back with sweat. The room tilted, just a bit, and I closed my eyes.

“Oh, man,” I heard someone say, and suddenly there was a hand enclosing mine, squeezing slightly. “There you are! I’m only fifteen minutes late, honey, no need to cause a commotion.”

I opened my eyes to see Dexter standing beside me. Holding my hand. I would have yanked it away, but honestly I thought better of it, after what had just happened.

“This doesn’t concern you,” Adrian said to Dexter.

“It’s my fault, though,” Dexter replied in that quick, cheery way of his, as if we were all friends who met coincidentally on a street corner. “It is. See, I was late. And that makes my sweetums so foul tempered.”

“God,” I said under my breath.

“Sweetums?” Sherman repeated.

“She clocked him,” Adrian told Dexter. “Might have to call the cops.”

Dexter looked at me, then at Sherman. “She hit you?”

Now Sherman didn’t seem so sure, instead pulling at his collar and glancing around. “Well, not exactly.”

“Honey!” Dexter looked at me. “Did you really? But she’s just a little thing.”